Basil nodded. He looked at Dinah, but did not touch her. He said, “So long, Dinah.”
Cool customer, thought Inspector Slack. He acknowledged the presence of Miss Marple with a half bow and a “Good morning,” and thought to himself, smart old pussy; she’s on to it. Good job we’ve got that hearth rug. That and finding out from the car-park man at the studio that he left that party at eleven instead of midnight. Don’t think those friends of his meant to commit perjury. They were bottled, and Blake told ’em firmly the next day it was twelve o’clock when he left, and they believed him. Well, his goose is cooked good and proper. Mental, I expect. Broadmoor, not hanging. First the Reeves kid, probably strangled her, drove her out to the quarry, walked back into Danemouth, picked up his own car in some side lane, drove to this party, then back to Danemouth, brought Ruby Keene out here, strangled her, put her in old Bantry’s library, then probably got the wind up about the car in the quarry, drove there, set it on fire and got back here. Mad sex and blood lust, lucky this girl’s escaped. What they call recurring mania, I expect.
Alone with Miss Marple, Dinah Blake turned to her. She said, “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got to understand this: Basil didn’t do it.”
Miss Marple said, “I know he didn’t. I know who did do it. But it’s not going to be easy to prove. I’ve an idea that something you said just now may help. It gave me an idea the connection I’d been trying to find. Now, what was it?”
“I’m home, Arthur!” declared Mrs. Bantry, announcing the fact like a royal proclamation as she flung open the study door.
Colonel Bantry immediately jumped up, kissed his wife and declared heartily, “Well, well, that’s splendid!”
The colonel’s words were unimpeachable, the manner very well done, but an affectionate wife of as many years’ standing as Mrs. Bantry was not deceived. She said immediately, “Is anything the matter?”
“No, of course not Dolly. What should be the matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Bantry vaguely. “Things are so queer, aren’t they?”
She threw off her coat as she spoke, and Colonel Bantry picked it up carefully and laid it across the back of the sofa. All exactly as usual, yet not as usual. Her husband, Mrs. Bantry thought, seemed to have shrunk. He looked thinner, stooped more, there were pouches under his eyes, and those eyes were not ready to meet hers. He went on to say, still with that affectation of cheerfulness. “Well, how did you enjoy your time at Danemouth?”
“Oh, it was great fun. You ought to have come, Arthur.”
“Couldn’t get away, my dear. Lot of things to attend to here.”
“Still, I think the change would have done you good. And you like the Jeffersons.”
“Yes, yes, poor fellow. Nice chap. All very sad.” “What have you been doing with yourself since I’ve been away?”
“Oh, nothing much; been over the farms, you know. Agreed that Anderson shall have a new roof. Can’t patch it up any longer.” “How did the Radfordshire Council meeting go?” “I well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t go.” “Didn’t go? But you were taking the chair-” “Well, as a matter of fact, Dolly, seems there was some mistake about that. Asked me if I’d mind if Thompson took it instead.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Bantry. She peeled off a glove and threw it deliberately into the wastepaper basket. Her husband went to retrieve it and she stopped him, saying sharply, “Leave it. I hate gloves.” Colonel Bantry glanced at her uneasily. Mrs. Bantry said sternly, “Did you go to dinner with the Duffs on Thursday?” “Oh, that? It was put off. Their cook was ill.” “Stupid people,” said Mrs. Bantry. She went on, “Did you go to the Naylors’ yesterday?”
“I rang up and said I didn’t feel up to it; hoped they’d excuse me. They quite understood.” “They did, did they?” said Mrs. Bantry grimly. She sat down by the desk and absentmindedly picked up a pass of gardening scissors. With them she cut off the fingers, one by one, of her second glove.